


Paraffin

by hauntedpoem



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Accidents, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Archery, Ballet, Ballet Dancer, Betrayal of Trust, Controversial relationship, Dancing, Eä Academy is the Julliard of dance drama and music, Incest, Lust, M/M, Meludir POV, Meludir centered, Meludir finds something he will not like, Mental Instability, Recovery, Rescue, Rock Bottom - Freeform, first person POV, injuries, living in the woods, mentions of cannibalism among orcs, metronomes, modern elves, orcs as vandals, postmodern dance, thrandolas - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-10-02 08:40:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10213769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: Meludir is Eä Academy's dirty little secret. Once a ballet prodigy, he's now discovered that his downfall has been carefully orchestrated through lies and betrayal by the one closest to him, his lover.After an attack in the vicinity of Mirkwood, he is rescued by the recluse author, Thranduil Oropherion and lives with him and his son.While he's recovering in Thranduil's secluded mansion, Meludir sees things he shouldn't have seen and learns that some secrets are better left alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am incorrigible.  
> No, I am. Seriously.  
> I promised myself I would not post another WIP, nor dream of one until I completed my other 'controversial relationship' fic, Tradition.  
> But here I am, making these characters suffer again. Oh well...  
> -  
> All mistakes are mine, but if you find something that's completely out of place, just let me know. I only have two eyes.  
> -  
> Enjoy!

The reason I'm walking dangerously close to the causeway, alone, in the heart of the wilderness, is because I don't care about anything, anymore.  
You might contradict me there but it is useless. Hope exhausts me, it's become fickle, therefore stays concealed by my overbearing apathy.

Two months in a chilled apartment with nothing but tap water and instant noodles, no prospects for the future and the nightmare of betrayal are enough to drive someone like me to... I don't know... Death? The great equalizer? Madness? Well, excuse me if I seem as if I'm complaining but I reached that point where hope is just a waste of my time. And…no… I'm not suicidal.

Call it depression or whatever you want but you should know that I would give anything to get out of this state. I don't want to think about it. I want to do the things I couldn't before and I want to start again. But it's so hard to kick off when you're down. See? Now I sound like a pessimist. I have the right to do that, oh, and you can't do anything about it. You can't!

I wish I were duller. I wish I followed those 12 steps programs that are meant to put you back on your feet and transform you into a productive member of society.  
Ha ha. But you already know it's a bitter laugh. Hollow. First things first...

You know it's going down when you start selling your favourite shoes on eBay, along with your unopened makeup cases. You are certain you've lost it when they cut the electricity and when you ponder whether to blow your disgusting landlord so he can let you live in that sunless hole he calls an apartment for one more week. One week is not enough time. Should've asked for a month. But then again, I have always sold myself short.

I know what you're thinking. That I'm whoring myself to dirty old men for rent and food, right? That I'm a bitch that takes the easy way out instead of _working hard_ and all that shit...

Well, excuse me, you're fucking wrong. And that's why I'm here, kicked out of a seedy motel, then kicked out of the bus. The only bus that crosses Mirkwood on a 12-hour shift. If I prick up my ears, I can hear wolves howling.

So the bus...  
No money, remember? (And no, I wouldn't have sucked off the bus driver, just in case you're wondering!) At least they could have let me ride for another mile or so until we reached civilization. But no, the driver practically threw me out in the middle of nowhere. Just to show me that he could.  
Snow and trees and mud. Just me, my backpack, my nicest pair of white Ugg boots, my blue parka with the bitchiest fur-lined hood and the best music blasting into my headphones. I carry with me everything I didn't sell online. And that's not much because I used to own really cool stuff. And beautiful things sell fast. I should know that better than most.  
Okay, enough of that. If I continue like this, you'll think I'm vain and shallow. I never denied that I am.  
Back to music...

I love grunge and punk and heavy metal. And other stuff. Disabused voices that sing of loneliness and pain and then love and life. Oh, and happy songs too. Don't mind me, I am rambling.  
I also love myself a greasy beef burger with enough mayo and fries. I'm having it now. It's delicious. So fucking gorgeous and delicious. It's also one of the reasons I've been kicked out of the bus. I was told in an impolite manner to shove it up to my faggot ass. I talked back. I didn't go through hell for the past year so I would be insulted in public transportation. And who says faggot anymore?  
So. Hamburgers. It's been years since I had one. I think... Three... Or maybe four? Not sure. And I'm not talking about that vegan crap we ate at the cafeteria.

I just happened to eat one of their extra large pepperoni pizzas, a slice of cherry pie with cream and I was having a double chocolate milkshake when the idea struck me. I savoured the fattening fast-food because I have been practically starving and then I decided to order something for the road. I winked at the waitress and I asked her if she would be so nice as to fry me some burgers. Maybe because she was a sweet, nice lady, she recommended me the trucker menu. I must have looked famished and gaunt to her. Fat, juicy, meaty hamburgers with a large portion of French fries and pickles, here we go. I ordered two and when she was busy with another customer, I left without paying and ran as fast I could. 

So I just fled the Dappled Buck without paying. As if I had any money! Yeah, I'm a nasty bitch or a faggot (if you're feeling like throwing insults). The cute waitress left her number on a napkin inside the food carton.  
Too bad it's now filled with grease and extra mayo. I will still keep it.

So I feel pretty great. It's beautiful, to be honest. Pines and spruces everywhere. Snow everywhere. The mountains are behind me, the unknown is ahead of me.  
And my legs are numb.

Joy Division's Atmosphere is now my journey's theme. Probably my favourite band. It would surprise many. It's easier to claim you love bands whose main creative force had long since committed suicide. Well... That, and Nirvana. But they are two very different bands. They're in my top ten. Back to suicides, if singer-songwriter's your thing, I couldn't choose between Nick Drake and Elliot Smith.

I am sorry. I just can't. Gotta love both.  
Maybe it's because all my life I've had to listen, work and pay attention to the music of dead composers. Then it just naturally sticks with you, like a second musical skin. Put the music and the feelings into shape by way of well-adjusted choreography.  
Prokofiev's Dance of the Knights starts gloriously and now I wish I didn't press shuffle.

It brings back too many memories, painful ones. I was to play Romeo this February and die peacefully in Juliet's arms.  
I have played Mercutio for my debut, probably my favourite part, one I identified with a lot. Fiery, hot-headed Mercutio. Not afraid to die. Kicking ass and taking names until mine was down and stripped from me by a cold blade. By my best friend. Or so I thought.

But now, as I walk in the middle of nowhere, all I aspire to be is Tybalt. I very much feel like him. And I wish to be him. Death by a righteous hand. Death, mercilessly served by from someone's best friend. The cut of the blade from someone who respects the values of friendship is welcome. At least they cared enough to kill you.

However, my wish hasn't been granted. I've got instead endless agony, through deceit and deep-seated hatred at the hands of an incompetent, narcissistic, hypocritical spoiled kid. Oh, and with rich parents. My drive, my future, my everything has been broken to pieces along with my bones while the great, revered ballet academy watched and did nothing. My lover discarded me like a ruined pair of pointes.

Eä Academy of performing arts, the best that there is. And you've guessed correctly, yes, I am a dancer. Or I used to be, anyway. They called me a fucking prodigy, now I'm just their dirty little secret and my so called best friend and love of my life - yeah, the narcissistic incompetent bitch I happened to mention, is their new favourite. Lethuin. Nothing left to be said there.

It's not fair.  
But no one said it should be. Nature doesn't know fairness, it won't give me more time. I have to know what I want and then take it, in the most brutal way possible, and make sure no one lives to tell the tale. That's what they did.  
You know what they said when I've been hospitalized with fractures in both legs? C'est la vie, Meludir.  
May they freeze in the void...

You misunderstand me, I don't hate them. There's no energy left for that but dancing was my life and they made sure they took it all away from me. It was no accident. It was deliberate.

I keep away from the deep snow and walk on the wet asphalt. All around me are these magnificent trees, a dark mass of freezing trunks, boughs heavy with snow. I've heard stories about Mirkwood before but I have no intention to go on an exploration right now. I keep to the road. I'm just passing. I reach a high curve and when I look down, the highway is stretched before me like a lazy black serpent. It coils around the mountain and descends in all its splendour.  
A many headed monster and I happen to be right on the Old Forest road. It is like walking the plank. Only colder.  
Even if I walk for a day and a night, I wouldn't be able to reach Dale.

I don't even know why I decided that that was the place for me. Must be because when I was a kid, we had a road trip there with the orphanage. It had been cold, wet and tedious. Late autumn. The dinner had been a tepid sludge of murky sauce and vegetables the night of our arrival but the next morning, some kids had grown restless and planned a riot so they begrudgingly took us for burgers and fries at the local Diner. We visited the city of Laketown which seemed to have recovered from an economic slump that lasted more than a decade.

They housed us in a deteriorated hotel that seemed to fall apart as we mounted the stairs. The lift was out of order. There were mouldy walls and creaking staircases and pictures on the wall, just rip offs from NatGeo Photography: frogs mating, lions scanning the Savannah for prey, peacocks showing off to their mate. In one of the bathrooms, some boys found old numbers from Adult Entertainment and a Gentleman's Club. Discolored centrefolds and crumpled pages that seemed to have been crusted with dried ejaculate and other bodily fluids. I looked away. For the first time, I looked away. It didn't matter that the big bullies called me a sissy boy or cocksucker. I didn't mind. I was none of those things.  
I am over it or so I'd like to think.

I happened to be settled in a room with five other kids and from our window we saw this amazing five stars hotel towering above the rest of the buildings. We later found out that the shabby hotel we stayed in was to be demolished shortly after our departure.  
We crowded the small space in front of the window just to catch a glimpse of it.  
Soon, our dingy room was forgotten while we stared in fascination at the moving lifts of the glass and steel building.

I can see them now in my mind's eye as I saw them on that Autumn day. Measured steps, finely muscled arms, and strong legs, clear, radiant faces. Perfect posture. Each of them carrying their backpack, smiling at each other. In the lift, conversing or striking poses. Warming up. Gods and goddesses at work. They were just ballet dancers. In that moment, I knew I wanted to be like them. So I worked hard and became one.

I like using my body to express myself. I love the movement, the meaning of everything I do. It can be grace incarnate, fury, seduction or madness. Everything has a purpose. It transforms you and you feel like you're made of the same material as the clouds, gliding, defying gravity. I was sublimating my bones, torturing my muscles and tendons to the beats of the metronome and they hastily dubbed me a prodigy. I only did what I liked, expressed myself in the only way I knew how.

At sixteen, I got my first Nessa award and the grand prize for best performance. Do you know what that means? It means you're unstoppable. And that pisses many people off.  
You... Are a threat, kid. You need to be eliminated.

So you see... This is why I need to drown those memories before they drag me down and leave me struggling, drowning. You might understand, maybe you've been through heartache before. I need to remind you that this was not normal. What happened to me was far from normal. I won't tell you.

Shhh…No. You can plead as much as you want. Beg on your knees. The answer is No!  
A big fat No. I don't need your pity. I don't need you to think that I'm making things up to gain your sympathy. I don't need anything from you. You can listen or you can leave me alone.

Depeche Mode's 'I feel you' is next. I love this song. I imagine I hit his lying face to the sound of the bass and nothing, not even the fear of dying in prison makes me relent my rhythm. I have excellent rhythm.

So…there is this truck behind me. Black jeepers creepers piece of shit. A noisy monstrosity bearing metal horns and a fucked up vibe.

Orcs. A nasty gang of orcs.

I try to make myself inconspicuous by descending into the forest but they've spotted me and they honk and accelerate. Damn.  
These wheels grate on my nerves. I take my headphones off. I could just mute my music but you can never be too careful with these guys. As if robbing, raping, maiming and vandalizing aren't enough of a cue for me to just run.  
And where would I hide? They'll catch me in a matter of minutes.  
Someone's whistling.  
I walk faster, for some stupid reason. I am scared. Of course, I am fearful of what could happen. My heart's in my throat and all I can do is look around me. Trees everywhere. My thoughts are fucking petrified as if I am still trying to recover from system overload but I keep walking. For some reason, all I think about is how the grease from the hamburger I've just eaten is clinging grossly to my fingertips. They honk louder and pass me by. My knees tingle hot and feel like jelly. I let out a breath I didn't realize I've been holding.

The truck stops and then with a sound like crunched bones it reverses gear.  
Shi-it.  
Fuck.

Mayo on my fucking fingers. Get out. Get away. Run. what are you doing? 

I am fucked if I don't run.

I force myself to move further. I cannot freeze here, with them circling me like crows a carrion. Not now. It's not the fear of what they used to do. News circulates fast enough and you get to know you don't mess with these guys, especially since their leader, head of operations or whatever you want to call is at the top of the most wanted list. Sauron, fka Annatar, fka genius turned criminal Mairon Aulendil.  
It's funny how my mind goes through every possible thing I could use to escape. What? My self-effacing charm? My seamless wit? My motor skills? All I can do at this point is break into a sweat after two minutes of entrechat. Or should I impress them with a grand jete?  
No, because real life does not work like that. Real life means real pain and you have a lot to lose, even though I am already at rock bottom. Did I tell you I don't want to die? Or be raped for the matter. Or disfigured. Or... eaten alive. You tell me/ I have heard enough stories to make up my mind that orcs are not a pleasant way to die.

Death by orc.

Sounds disgusting, anyway.

Nevertheless, there are five of them, the troll included. And they're the type of creatures that don't ask, they just take and maim and don't care if they go to prison.

All I can do is lower my headphones as inconspicuously as possible and look unafraid which is not an easy thing to do when you're faced with their sort. Yeah, that's what I said, because they all have form, all look ready to kick my ass and cannibalize me. These are the types of guys who don't care if they don't have a toothpick. I've heard the stories.  
And killing and eating me is not the worst thing they could do but for the sake of this story, I will not go into details. Death can happen very slowly. And right fucking now I don't want any more pain!

Okay, Meludir, calm the fuck down.  
"Hey pretty!" One of them yells and it's not the inarticulate roar I heard on the news. This one grabs me by the arm and turns me around brusquely. His fingers claw into my jacket. He's tattooed all over the face and has a lot of body mods. Seems fond of horns, thinks he's probably the devil. I don't know if they're part of some cult that sacrifices elves to Melkor or Sauron but I don't want to know.  
I'd rather die now.  
Two of them circle me and grab at me. I try to stay my ground. One rips at my jacket. I'm easy prey. I don't want to think what will happen when the troll gets out of the car.  
"Whatcha doin' here alone, purdy thing?" His companion asks me and his mouth just reeks. I cannot even face him, that's how bad it is.  
I try to jerk away and keep my distance but they push me around as if I'm their plaything and I guess I am.  
I can't. I can't let this happen. Not without a fight.  
So of course, I start running.  
Never underestimate a dancer's resilience. I didn't wake every morning at 5 a.m. for nothing, have some faith.  
But no. What I did not know was that a troll could outrun an athlete.  
Now they just leisurely follow me in the car, the troll has me by the neck, my headphones are thrown somewhere into the snow and he proceeds to tear apart my clothes with his dirty, slimy paws.  
I know I kick, I know I scream. It must seem pathetic but if I don't at least put up a fight, something bad's gonna happen.  
They try to push me into the car but I manage to slip away twice, which enrages the bossy guy that got to me first.  
When his hand fisted into my hair, I thought I was just going to die of pain. I am crying and I absolutely hate how weak I suddenly find myself to be, now pushed on the hood of the car, face down, manhandled and despoiled. The troll grabs me then and hits my head hard enough to leave a dent in the metal. I think I lose it because the other asshole who mangles whatever words come out of his infested mouth just kicks me down. They start kicking at me and all I can do is curl into a ball.  
Someone is bleeding.  
I guess that's me. What would be my famous last words? That I didn't want this to happen? That I regret all my past mistakes? That I wish someone would save me?

So I scream and I shout until they relent. That's it. The magic words. "I'll do anything." But that's a mistake although it seems to appease them. And they laugh. The guy at the wheel just honks harder and shouts to bring me in. These guys are in a hurry. Thr troll lifts me to my feet and wobbly, I manage to sit upright. I silently congratulate myself before I start running again and they actually think this is funny because they get in the car and start chasing after me.

Except for the troll who had torn a branch from a tree and now waves it above his head like a weapon- and it is a weapon- believe me.

He actually manages to hit me and derail me straight into a ditch and then he chases me like an animal down into the woods. I hear car noises. Yeah, distinctly, I bet my life on it. I look behind and there's a car speeding up and the echo of a gunshot waking me from my stupor... and the next moment, I am rolling down into the abrupt forest, managing somehow to avoid splitting my head into a tree trunk. I fail, at last, and hit something. My leg. The pain vibrates in my entire body and I submit to it, oh sweet unconsciousness.

I don't know for how long I've been there but I am cold and wet.  
Dark, decomposed leaves twist into my hair. From where I lie on the forest floor, I can see moss and mushrooms. The snow is scarce as it usually happens with the dark pine forests in the region.  
I think I've hurt myself pretty badly because I bleed from my temple. It almost trickles into my eye so I close them shut, hoping it's not a serious concussion. I can remember very well what happened and thank Eru, I am not a prisoner of the troll.

I hear footsteps, light, jumpy footsteps. Someone is coming, though. I try to turn around but my whole side seems to be paralysed by pain.

"Wait! Don't move!" No troll, I cannot help but thank Eru. He has a nice, deep and breathy voice.

In my line of vision appear a pair of dark suede boots and I exhale, relieved.  
"Mhmm" I try to say something but even forcing words out is bound to give me a tormenting headache. It's my chest that hurts. And my head. And my leg. I cannot feel my hands.  
"Don't strain yourself, you must have twisted your ankle and hurt your head pretty badly." I trust his voice. And then I see his face, near mine, icy blue eyes, pale, long hair. Elf.  
I cannot help but smile.  
"Thank you." I manage, and I cringe at how feeble and dry it all sounds. Just wrong, as if something unwholesome has been shoved down my throat.  
"Shh," he quiets me. "Save that for later."  
He snakes his arms under my shoulders and tries to straighten me. My spine hurts like hell and I don't hesitate to scream my discomfort.

In my fearful brain, I think myself paralysed or worse, maimed for life. Forced to roll in a wheelchair with a disfigured face and bald head. Yes, my vanity always wins. I begin to cry and I am surprised to find my chest moving with the force of my whimpers. He tries to comfort me with icy hands.   
"It's going to be all right. I am Thranduil. I own these woods and I am going to save you." As if that's supposed to make me feel better. But I like him. I like his voice, so mysterious and self-possessed, his handsome face, pure lines and unspoiled beauty, the tall, strong body, a true and noble elf. He makes my body, all strained and hurting sinew to twist in his powerful hands, my head rests on his shoulders and for a second I feel so light. He knows how to do this.

He actually carried me into his arms. How strong is this guy, actually? I know I am strong myself. I can carry a ballerina. I can catch one in the air. But I'd never be able to mount uphill and surf through the trees on slippery leaves and creaking branches. Not like this.   
He smells of pine and moss and his hair is so cold against my cheek, and heavy like silk. Frankincense and cleanliness, I breathe him in and I feel safe.

I am pathetic and I whimper and I can't care to hide my blatant interest in his scent. Oh yes, I am desperate. I could have ended up raped and tortured, half eaten alive and beheaded, my head a trophy for that abomination of a truck, my intestines stuffed with the ground meat of my thighs. 

Instead, I'm in Thranduil's arms, Thranduil, the owner of bloody Mirkwood, who smells nice and is strong and makes me feel safe and hopeful, apparently.

"Wait," my voice breaks and I swallow my nervousness in vain. I am trembling all over from shock. "My headphones…must be somewhere."  
Thranduil places me gently on the backseat of his Range Rover and covers me with an alpaca blanket. "Stay here, I'll look for them, okay?"  
Eru in heaven, if he takes me home and mends my wounds, then I am going to worship you every day. Also, I  will worship him.   
Because he is what I think I wanted all this time.  
When I'm left alone, my body catches up with my dirty mind. I escaped imminent death and now I can't believe my luck. And to think I wanted to go to Dale and start asking for a job in one of their strip clubs…Fuck no. I'll strip for him any day for free. And although I regret most of my mistakes, now they seem to have been erased by his sole presence.

His thick, dark eyebrows twist in a show of worry when he returns. Doesn't seem contrived, this is real. For me, for him as well.  He holds the wires up to me and I can see they're damaged.  
"But this is working perfectly," he hands me my phone, still paused on a piece of classical. "Nice music you have in there…We don't really get a phone signal in here... " His eyebrows twist in wonder and he looks expectative at me. What icy eyes he has. I can clearly see myself in those crystal lakes.  
It takes me a while to get what he's been waiting for.  
"Oh... Call me Meludir." I want to kick myself.  
"Hello, Meludir," My name sounds delicious on his lips. He smiles and it's such an exquisite thing to witness.  I already love him. My saviour. I don't ever want to part with him. "I'll take you to my place. We're quite far away from civilisation, just so you know. You have to trust me on this one." He shows me his ID and gives me a brief description of his house and how we'll get there.

I don't think he's married. But does he live alone?

I am surprised at my thought but I guess it's pretty normal after a concussion.  
  
Thranduil helps me out of my backpack and hands me a chocolate bar. Gently, he then uses the rolls of bandages to care for my head. He cleans it nicely and I am relieved to see that there's not that much blood. My head is pounding but I bet yours would hurt too if a troll hit you hard enough.

Thranduil is a considerate driver. He's fast but not dangerously so.  
"We'll get you a nice warm bed to sleep and you will recover. I'll call for a doctor when we get home. I'll take care of you so don't worry. Just let your body focus on healing right now."

These were the words I was literally dying to hear. From someone. Anyone. I'm just so happy it's him. I am glad this is real. That he exists. That I still exist.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meludir wakes up in Thranduil's house. There's breakfast, infatuation, jealousy... then we meet Legolas!  
> (rated T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before saying that Meludir's character is a shallow one, don't forget that one of the reasons you're being here is because you think the [ Elvenking](http://24.media.tumblr.com/b4c3befbe6a441005cf91cce0540d149/tumblr_n35v89dgrt1sls0uso1_1280.jpg) is a really cool character so don't judge Meludir too harshly. He's simply fangirling.  
> -  
> also, this wasn't proofread. I just hurried my muse, fed her miracle water... you know the drill. if you see typos or text that makes no sense, just let me know.  
> -  
> I appreciate all your support! Thank you all for reading my work and being here for me!  
> Enjoy!

I wake up to the soft sound of steps on a wooden floor. I remember this sound. Somehow. Even though I have rarely experienced such a thing, there exists a greater memory, even for orphans. Its particularity and familiarity- so weird, it feels like I am still in a dream. More memories. They remind me of years of training, of mornings, days and evenings listening to my body, pushing, farther and farther its limits.

I try to push my head upward, away from the pillow but a sharp pain blooms in my stomach. My muscles protest. The movement draws a chain reaction. Every particle hurts. Even my eyes hurt. It's too much light here. Too sharp, too bright.

And music. Something nice and unassuming. A bit self-conscious, crisp and clear and simple. Like a winter morning.

Then I succumb to my fate and in the end, I try to enjoy what I can. This, this feels fine.  
It was dark outside when Thranduil brought me here and the first thing I noticed was how beautiful everything around me was. I must have fallen asleep in the car during the drive, with nothing but water and painkillers in my stomach. I instinctively woke up when the car reached its destination and Thranduil practically carried the dead weight of my body.

Soaked and muddy as were my clothes, he helped me out of them and for decency's sake, although I confess, I didn't care at the moment if I was naked in a crowd, he helped me in the warm bathtub, to sink my frigid feet and wash my hair. He helped and I was so out of it that I didn't even manage a blush. Somewhere between drying my hair and patting my shoulder with a warm towel, I must have passed out again. And I woke up here, in the comfiest bed, all dressed up like a doll in white.

In mock resignation, I resort to analysing my surroundings. Never before has rustic modern given me a better impression. The room is white and contrasts sharply with the colour of the wood. I know oak floors when I see them, I know comfort and utility when I feel it. It's the touch of the feather pillows and the feather coverlet. It's the warmth and cleanliness that I trust. The door, although white just like the wall, is half open and I can see more wood leading somewhere.

Looking around with new eyes, basking in the morning light. I feel soft cotton touching my skin. I feel my feet warm and relaxed. This is good. This is safety. I am in someone's room. This is no mere guestroom. The personal belongings stare back at me, the considerate personal touch is in everything. I tried further, a feeling like sinking into the bed makes my spine pop and my breath deepen. I'm home in here. If only I could stay.

I know this is Thranduil's house. His home. I can hear the typical music of domestic activity. I can hear the woods surrounding the house. I hear birds singing outside. Calling to each other.

There's a glass of water on a tray next to me. There are pills, aspirin and pain medicine. I take them and as soon as the water hits my parched throat, my strength returns to me, I find my situation more bearable. It takes me a while before another attempt to get out of bed but this time I am successful.

Someone, perhaps Thranduil himself, is chopping vegetables swiftly. He is cooking something. I can sense the faint steamy smell of broth and I realise how easily hungry I can get. I fill my lungs with the aroma of a homemade meal, I smell the sweetness of mango fruit, of ripe and precious delicacies.  
Of course, it was Thranduil. I could recognise the tall frame and that silky hair everywhere now that I've been so close to it. He turns around and smiles at me. I smile at him. It's only fair.

"Good morning," my own voice rings strongly in my ears. How long has it passed since I had someone to greet in the morning? But I don't have Thranduil. Even my thoughts of him are a work in progress. I don't really know him yet I feel like he's always been waiting for me and I for him. Like this is supposed to happen. Like fate, although I don't believe in fate, not anymore.  
"Morning," he replies, "It's good to see you're up. Please, sit." So I do and he goes back to the pan on the stove while I look at the kitchen, trying to quench my curiosity. My eyes catch glimpses of wilderness but they always, treacherously, steal glances  Thranduil.

"Here you go," he puts a plate full of goodies on the table.  
I have questions and he has answers. I need to tell him my part of the story- although it exhausts me, he seems like he reins his curiosity in for the moment, I'm sure of it but when the omelette enters my line of vision, accompanied by all sorts of veggies ranging from spinach to carrots to little stems of broccoli and cauliflower. All my thoughts return to the pressing need for food. My stomach grumbles and I forget everything I wanted to ask.

We ate breakfast together at the table, Thranduil sitting opposite me, from time to time, glancing at me reassuringly. I don't know which was more delectable to watch; either his busy mouth or the delicious food. I felt greedy and halfway to finishing the contents of my plate, I dared furtive glances at him, trying not to look obvious. He caught me in mid-stare, twice, but he returned the same warm, reassuring glance to me.

I was the injured deer, the convalescent youth, helpless and demure. He probably saved a hundred like me. I wasn't special. But I wanted to be. He sure made feel like that, like I was the only one in the world. His attention, his care, his eyes, glacial but benevolent, the delicately chiselled features, noble, perfectly symmetrical.

"You feel better, Meludir?" Oh, he remembered my name. I stare back at the food. I'm almost finished with the omelette and he's right, it's gone cold (but it's still delicious). "Last night you just... passed out. I guess from exhaustion." He takes a sip from the glass of juice as if to collect his thoughts and doesn't pressure me.

Thranduil portions the fruit salad and I can see everything's cut to perfection. Little cubes of mango, berries, well-proportioned strawberry slices, apple and sesame seeds, then he pours me a generous amount of athelas tea to complete this elvish breakfast.

"Here you go," he says while pouring the honey and then steering with a delicate spoon. "You'll get your strength back in no time, you'll see."

He leaves me to my tea and proceeds to wash the dishes in the sink. I wish I could help him with something but I feel my head heavy. He's right. I should just drink my tea. And my juice. And ask him for more aspirin.

Isn't he interested in me, in my past? Why doesn't he assault me with questions, like any self-respecting Sindar would? No self-respecting elf would hitchhike in Mirkwood, knowing the dangers. Thranduil is not like the types I knew. He's unique. I smile in my cup and drink the herbal tea. You may think me a fool, talking about my sudden infatuation with a stranger, only that he's a very respectable one. Trustworthy I might add. And isn't that the best kind of person you can fall in love with?

I'm wearing some new cotton pyjamas but they fit me perfectly. They can't be his. He's way too tall for these pants. I need to know and breach the subject as gently as possible, to which he answers lightly that all my clothes are hanging outside to dry. He took the liberty of washing them- according to the label indications.  
Wow. I mean... I am lost for words at the level of care he's shown towards me. I am secretly proud of his thoroughness. It almost makes me tear up.

"I took your things out of the pocket, don't worry. Your clothes seemed so nice, it would have been a pity to leave them like that." And now he talks about my clothes. And how they are nice. Thank Eru he thinks that. Thank Eru I sold my slutty clothes on eBay when I had the chance. or maybe not. I think he would have really liked the bow on my panties because my ass is a present. Gulp. I am a secret slut. "You took quite a dive in the woods, though." I detect quiet amusement in his voice but instead of making me feel an inappropriate sense of shame, it puts me at ease. Okay, he likes my clothes. I am beaming inside. In a strangely uncharacteristic way. I am usually exuberant and I get excited easily. I guess I still am, but not visible anymore. Things happened.

I like it. I like him. But the idea that he cleaned me up, peeled the wet, muddy clothes from my skin, including my underwear and then dressed me up as if I were a rag doll. That makes me blush intensely. Oh, he must have seen everything but it's too late now and I don't regret my vulnerability.

"Are these yours?" I ask, turning to him and piercing a juicy raspberry with my teeth.  
"Oh, no. Those belong to Legolas, they're new, he never wears his pyjamas to bed, although I insisted all these years." The taste turns unbearably sour in my mouth. I used to love raspberries. Fu-uck-kkk.

Who the hell is Legolas? Legolas, who never sleep in his pyjamas, naked on his bed, writhing in those perfect sheets, the best cotton that there is, dirtying them up as he comes in spurts. This faceless, formless Legolas, fucking Thranduil, being fucked by Thranduil, coming on Thranduil, having Thranduil come in him. The little slut. My mind cannot comprehend it and the sinking feeling just makes me want to vomit. But instead, I smile, my face blanches, my hands shake nervously. Suck it up, Meludir!

"Ah...Ummm..." His name is Legolas. I can't even...  
He's drying his hands on a towel. Everything's so clean around him. Everything sparkles. Perfect kitchen, perfect place, secluded, the trees, the greenery, the gorgeous house. A perfect retreat for gay elves. Just look at him. He's too perfect to be straight, even his socks are colour coordinated with the rest of his clothes. He wears grey as if it's gold and he's probably the only person that makes the drab colour look appealing.

"Then... how did, I mean... my clothes. " Eru! I don't know what I'm going to say. I am a mess.  
"Oh," his pupils widen for an instant and he looks amused but still, the type of amusement you would never hate.  
"Don't worry, you have nothing I haven't seen before. I couldn't just leave you naked on the bed now, that would have been truly discourteous of me."

Nothing he hasn't seen before; of course... Legolas.  
The name's become unpleasant to me already. Le-go-las... it snakes through the crevices of my mind. lass...

I need to get out of here. I cannot breathe, a feel a terrible weight pushing into my chest. Alarmed, I get up brusquely from my seat and vertigo assaults my head. For the briefest moment, something's wrong with my vision, everything turns to a blur.  
I cannot see properly.

I feel like falling but again but he is there to save me. I almost dragged the plates down with me but to my utter disbelief, nothing's really out of place. Just me. I'm sick. I need to lie down.  
I feel nauseous.

Thranduil is right behind me, worried.  
"It's alright. You're just dizzy." He exhales. I feel his muscles bunching up as he sustains me. "Yesterday I took the liberty of calling the police and a doctor. You were lucky I was passing through. These things with the orcs can go horribly wrong. Especially around the mountains."

He's right. Just the thought makes me feel better. "You should stay in bed, your torso's full of bruises. I fear that you might have cracked a few ribs. You hit your head pretty badly, or were hit in the head, most probably." It is somehow reassuring. I need facts, even though they're gruesome. "Elrond Peredhel is a very competent healer. Don't think about it too much, okay?" I nod and he lifts me by the arms.

He walks me to a couch, talking to me all the way as if I am some sort of child.His voice is calm and assertive but I see his eyes, the pupil like a needle, there's fear etched into his face.

"He's already in Greenwood so I'll bring him here. He never shies away from helping someone. He just can't help it, all the Peredhels are healers, it's in their nature!" Again, he tries for an amusing tone and it's fine. It's fine because it works. I must have smiled because he looks pleased. It lightens my mood. He's on his knees in front of me, putting a pillow behind my head. His hands sort out my hair. "It's alright, it's the shock."

I am enveloped in a blanket and it's so comforting. can't he stay here with me? "I couldn't help but notice your legs..." Yes, the awkward moment has finally come. "You're a dancer. I think I've seen you before. You'll be back on stage, don't you worry..." I wish I could believe him.I was going to tell him about it but I feel so weak, I cannot even open my mouth now. That pressure, now it's gone. It is unbearably strange. I felt like that before. Like everything was going to be taken away from me. I hate that feeling.  
"I was," I say. "Not anymore."

"Meludir," he says, voice soft and focused only on me. "It's okay. He smooths the blanket around me and I want this moment to last forever.

"Stay here,"I say. Eru, it all comes back to me and I cannot be alone! My eyes tear up and he's there with me, solid, keeping me safe, smelling like cedar and pine. His grey cashmere sweater is perfect. I want to lie on his chest forever.

"You will have company," Thranduil says and pushes me gently back into the couch, the gesture parental yet determined. "Legolas, my son, is bound to be back anytime now."

  
"Oh," I gasp in surprise. Oh... Again!  
Legolas. The son. I exhale relieved. Legolas is his son. That is wonderful.

"Yes. Legolas." he smiles at me as if he knows what I've been thinking. "He's your age and in the habit of leaving me alone in this place for days. Troublemaker. Loves to run with this dwarf friend of his to Erebor and back. Gets into a lot of trouble."

His face changes completely when he talks about his son. I wonder where is his wife if he has one. "I lost my wife a long time ago. Legolas didn't even get to know her properly. She was a dancer, like you."

I really don't know what to say about that.  
"I am sorry." That's all I can say without embarrassing myself further. All I know is that I am happy that Legolas is his son and that's it. And he's friends with a dwarf. I don't even have time to feel bad about it because he's up, putting his boots and then his black coat on.

"I'll bring Elrond." He says. "Here, call me if you need anything." He places a phone in my hand and again, adjust the blanket around me.  
"Rest, watch television, do whatever you need to do to feel better." Such a gracious host. He knows I can't do much. Not in this state.

I must have fallen asleep in the middle of a cooking show. Sam Gamgee- extraordinaire.He's also a gardener and a best friend if that qualifies as a job. And apparently, if you're Frodo Baggins' bestie, it does. The last thing I remember is an ardent debate about the acceptable way of cooking potatoes while camping.

I wake up and it's dark in the house. The television has been shut down and the remote placed neatly on the coffee table. I know there's someone in the house. I can hear music coming from a room somewhere, piano music, some classical piece.

It seems that all I've been able to do now is sleep. Sleep and sleep. I drape the blanket around my shoulders and fumbling, I stalk to where the music is coming from. Sustaining my weight precariously and taking tentative steps with only the wall to aid me, then in a couple of minutes, I am in front of the room the room. A record is playing on the floor. I can feel the vibrations in the soles of my feet. I push the door and there I see a crouched figure arranging papers on the floor. It looks like a study, heavy with books and papers.

"Thranduil?" But I know already it's not Thranduil. It's Legolas.  
The figure turns to meet my eyes and I cannot remember having seen someone looking so angelic. I think I am in love with the Oropherions, Thranduil is handsome, manly, tall, impossibly well-mannered - his whole body speaks of authority and competence, while Legolas is simply divine. The same blood runs through their veins but they are so different in their beauty that I cannot help my heart skipping a beat.  
I am hopeless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in great need of a beta. In fact, I would appreciate any help detecting typos, grammar errors or repetitive phrases. If you have any idea and wish to help me improve my works, in any way... please, look me up on [Tumblr!](http://hauntedpoem.tumblr.com/)  
> -  
> and... I think it's high time I finished my fic - "Tradition" -although I hate to part with it so this is why I am starting new stories. I have re-written the final chapter of it several times but I still need to write something that pleases me. It's a very dear fic to me and I would hate to part with it in uncertain terms. [Check it out!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8840860/chapters/20272429)  
> >_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know it is short but more will follow. :)

I’ve survived, obviously, only to lay eyes on the most beautiful young man. He is a copy of Thranduil although the word “copy” is not insulting in this case, knowing very well that having someone like Thranduil as your sire is already a great step into being. He is a copy and more. He is a perfected, distilled version of Thranduil. He is young, although not younger than I am. His pure visage turns hallway to reveal peach coloured cheeks and his eyes, with their preternatural prismatic irises land on me in mute examination.

He is of savage beauty yet this does not reveal itself to many, something feral hidden deep inside, a green spirit of freedom. I know this is Legolas. More than pretty hair and more than pretty looks. There is something dangerous about him and that makes me… excited, even in my disheveled, post- bed rest state.

I want to be in his light, somehow. I want him to see me. More of me. The whole me. Not this ravaged shell of a dancer, this incognito mode of temporary fugitive. Dirty little secret. I want to shine, for both father and son who let me live in their home and recover with no further questions.

“Hello,” he says and he smiles, a winning smile. Powerful. He is so handsome. He is divine. Like the valar.

I cannot help but catch my breath. How can I even breathe around him?

He is on the floor, ordering some files into colorful folders and writing numbers and letters on them. A filing system.

“Hi.” I say meekly, I am curious, I won’t deny, about the work he is doing with those files. “Organizing?”

“Mhm.” He answers and turns to finish by clearing the floor of paper. I cannot really help. I have no idea whether he is aware of my condition. Either way, he doesn’t seem too interested and this both unsettles and amazes me.

“Do you need a ride?” he asks me casually without even turning to face me. Which I wanted, for some reason. Why would I need a ride?

“Sorry, no.” I replied in confusion. I strained my good leg and exhaled a relieved breath when I finally rested my head and my back on the wall, after finally entering the room. For some stupid reason, I felt like an intruder.

He laughed. Not some annoying or mocking laugh. It gave me the impression this was his regular, easy going laugh.

“Fine, suit yourself.” He said amusedly and went up to the desk and arranged the folders into neat piles. “He’s gonna disappear again for several days and you will be left here all by yourself. Just…” He said as if I were a child with an exceedingly slow mind. “Don’t get any ideas, it’s not as if you are the only one." Is this meant to discourage me? Some sort of discourse to cajole transient lovers to let it go? "I used to drive the others to their homes, there is no shame in that.” He finally said, deepening my confusion and turning around with a searching look. And then he actually looked at me and saw me. He  stopped himself as if he wished to swallow his words.

“You’re injured.”

“Well… orcs.” I gestured for some reason. “I fell in the woods. Your father said he is going for Elrond, the doctor. Thranduil helped me out. I am waiting for him.”

Legolas looked at me like a fish out of the water. For the preternatural beauty he inherited from his sire, he looked cruelly beautiful, even when he was befuddled, like he was now. His face turned cold. How… splendid.

“I am sorry, then.” He said and seemed to regret his startled mean expression. Which told me he had no idea who I was.

“My name is Meludir. I wish to thank you as I thanked your father.”

“Meludir.” He said, tasting my name on his lips and coming closer to me, his arms protective and helpful towards me, steadying me, supporting me. “I am Legolas Thranduilion. The son, obviously.” He laughed as if he just told me a good joke. I laughed with him. It was infectious, his laughter.

“Come,” he steered me towards a sofa. “Your leg must be killing you.” He was so strong. Like father, like son. Ah, I am starting to get ideas again. But I could be patient. I knew how. The hard way.

“I didn’t read his note. I had my phone turned off. I really didn’t want to come home this early but…” He seemed remorseful. “I am sorry.” I could see it in his eyes. He was sorry. For real.

The father and the son, with their emotions as raw and as real as possible and I was in their house, having a taste of their life and not getting enough at the same time. I wanted more. I realized then that I didn’t want to leave. Not now. Not like this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know. Another short chapter. It's been a long time since I got in the mood for writing this one.

We were in Thranduil’s kitchen, a large, white space with heated bamboo floors and quiet appliances. At the counter, Legolas was deciding on the menu by flipping haphazardly through some handwritten notes. I came closer, and tired as I was, I leaned my hip on the marble island. The writing on the recipes was not neat but a legible italic cursive that sprawled like a feline on the sepia squares of thick paper. It looked quick-witted and elegant in the black ink. This must be Thranduil’s but I could be wrong.

I drummed my fingers on the marble in mock impatience and Legolas decided just then to accompany the rhythm with a hum of his own.

“Are you bored?” He said without giving me time to answer. Perhaps I was bored. From the cupboard below he extracted a bottle full of red-blooded wine and winked at me. “It’s good we’re both bored.” He unscrewed the cap and let it breathe for a while. He dragged a chair to the counter and poured the wine in shapely crystal glasses for us both.

“An excellent choice,” I smirked as I smelled the deep aroma of the vintage.

Legolas smiled at me full of teeth. I could love him as a brother if he didn’t want more of me. Did I tell you – I fall in love too easily!

“Those were my mother’s,” he said casually, hinting at the recipes. I knew her presence in this place even before I met the son but somehow all I wanted to do was push her out of my mind, mostly because I am weak and jealous. Petty, too.

“What…” I couldn’t finish – I realized that only later, three gulps of wine down my throat. What happened to her, that’s what I wanted to ask him but it felt suddenly, very inappropriate.

But Legolas did not seem disturbed and treated my blunder with the patience of a saint, of one of  Este’s followers, mute with understanding, replete with patience and wisdom.

“She died, if that’s what you’re asking. How? Protecting me. She died so I could live and be here, now with you. Now drink this wine.” I was aware that something gentled in my eyes, they became foggy with tears. For her? Not sure. More for myself.

“I’ve never known mine. No one, actually.”

He didn’t say anything for a long while and then nodded in understanding, offering me some more wine. He never touched his glass, I noticed.

“I could say the perfunctory I am sorry, but…”

“I’d rather you not.”

“I figured that out.” He cleared his throat and collected the ingredients on the kitchen island. “How’s beef stroganoff sound to you?”

“Fine. I am famished.”

He flashed me a bright smile, then he turned away and started pouring oil into a pan, allowing it to heat up steadily.

I finished my glass and so did he but by the time I could take a good look at him, he was portioning the meat with steady moves of the knife.

“I never knew her actually, so I consider myself orphaned in that aspect. All I ever knew was my father and I understood only too late that he longed for her and that her sudden and violent death tore a hole in his heart. It is impossible to mend it.”

“I grew in an orphanage with strict teachers and people like me. We were… avid in ways most people cannot comprehend. We longed for the touch of love and we were starved for affection like plants kept in a basement. I always pushed myself but somehow, things always seemed out of my reach. I wonder whether it is something typical of us…” We started on these confessions as if we were old friends reacquainting with each other.

“What? Of us orphans?”

“You call yourself one.”

“But I am not, you mean to say.” His tone was… new. He sounded more like himself and not a pleasant version of a host.

“I can assure you, in my many years of walking this earth, I have done most of the parenting.”

“Including driving off… stray lovers of your father?”

“Including,” he turned and smiled again, knowing that I understood him perfectly. “I figured it out. You are not one of them. I am glad, for a change.” The smell of ingredients permeated the air, it heated the kitchen even more, enough for Legolas to open the door to the terrace and cocoon me in a blanket.

It was getting darker and I was waiting for Thranduil to bring the doctor while Legolas was cooking dinner. I was so lucky. I felt privileged, for the first time in many years – well, as privileged as an orphan can be – someone was actively taking care of me and asking me of my needs, going above and beyond trying to fulfill them. I felt cared for. I had no idea how much I missed this.

I know how this may sound. Like I am immature and unable to take care of myself. That is not true. I am just… Lonely and defeated. I have all these ideas yet strangely enough, I find it very hard to put them in motion. I am tired. Have you known frustration as I have? Perhaps too many times. I drank wine and I set the table, more because I insisted.

If you are wondering, I did tell him. No. Not my story of breakup and betrayal, the other one, in which I've climbed the ledge to become a ballet principal and I'm offered flowers applause. The former would take too much, more than a  cold winter evening. More than a hearty aromatic stew and more than three glasses of Pinot Noir. He watches me in fascination  and kneels on the floor to examine my legs. He touches them deliberately and reverently.

“How beautiful!” He exclaimed. “How beautiful it must have been to watch you dance. You have to do it again.” He made me pledge to him, that’s how it felt. “You have to promise me!” And he was a stranger no more.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, your appreciation for this fic makes me happy to write! Thank you all for reading, giving kudos and leaving comments!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond and Arwen pay a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so slow. The whole process of writing fic has been bothering me for a while and I really need a distance from fandom - any fandom! I am going nuts! I need a break but first, here's an update. Meludir senses something odd but will brush it off because living in fairyland where everything's alright is too important for the moment.

They all came in time for dinner and I was already through half a bottle of Pinot Noir. Legolas was not too fond of alcohol, I was to found as we delved deeper in all sorts of meaningless confessions from our childhood. There wasn’t that big an age gap between us, even as elves, we retained a similar view on life.

Soon enough I heard a car pull over and I realized Thranduil must have returned. The doctor, Elrond, was tall and enshrouded with the ascetical aura of the strictest healers. There was infinite wisdom in his eyes and a scarcity of movement in his countenance. He was followed by a tall, dark and divinely beautiful young elleth. Her eyes landed on me and she smiled, full of compassion, as she revealed the rest of her dark hair from beneath a saffron coloured cloak. Thranduil followed, carrying supplies, a pillar of strength. I knew I could rely on him. Legolas went ahead to greet them as I was very well dizzy now and warmed up by the wine and the blanket he covered me with.

Elrond took off his coat with the cold professionalism of doctors in a consultation room and deemed to offer me a tight smile. I could not read anything but politeness. To my utter horror, he has spent a good five minutes reproaching Thranduil for not bringing me to a hospital in Dale. I tried unsuccessfully to appease him but the young elleth joined me at the table and took my hands in hers and while I thought she was going for a friendly gesture, she was, in fact, assessing my health.

“My name is Arwen,” she whispered, clear enough so I could focus only on her cool touch instead of getting embroiled in the drama between Thranduil and Elrond.

“You assumed a great risk,” Elrond muttered darkly, he was obviously displeased and now chiding Thranduil as if he were a patient, not I.

“But he is here and he is safe, as safe as he could be.”

Elrond’s brows knitted in what I now surmised was resignation and the man exhaled as if exhausted.

“There’s no winning with you, Oropherion!”

Thranduil chuckled knowing he has, somehow won the argument between them and graced me with a reassuring look in which I could translate a serious amount of worry.

“How do you feel, Meludir?”

Arwen was now taking my pulse and I focused on appearing as well as I have been since I came here.

“He looks fine but I detected a disruption in his aura. An old injury.” She looked at me now and her eyes were the color of myosotis. Intense and serene at the same time. I was baffled, and uncomfortable, now squirming in my chair.

“My daughter is an accomplished healer, young man. Although, fear not, I will examine you as well.” The thought is both alarming and has this warming effect on me. My body is thankful. Elrond closes in on me with a bag of fragrant herbs and starts extracting them on the table in front of me, while Arwen, eyes closed in concentration sends her healing aura into my broken body.

From a distance, I glance at Legolas and his father. I try to catch Thranduil’s eyes but apparently he’s blind to anyone but his son right now. I cannot feel jealous because I am not that desperate, whatever you might think. Legolas takes his hand in his and leans in to whisper something in Thranduil’s ear. The gesture strikes me as odd. Just odd.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was too short and a bit lame and not telling us enough. I know! I will try to squeeze something good for the next time! Thanks for sticking around!  
> Thank you, TheMirkyKing for being an awesome person!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and words of encouragement are much needed.  
> Kudos are the sweetest thing and your opinions do matter. At least to me.  
> This won't be updated regularly. I already have fics to finish but there might be at least five more chapters before it's over. So keep an eye if unstable thrandolas is your thing.  
> :leers at the screen:


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